


STOP

by misha_anon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, First Kiss, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-21 21:58:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2483846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misha_anon/pseuds/misha_anon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Castiel is a telegraph operator and Dean is a thorn in his side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	STOP

**Author's Note:**

> _The idea originated with[this](http://inkblackwings.tumblr.com/post/100324150021/sixyearsofcollegedownthedrain-airspaniel) post._

The door of the telegraph office in Denver slams into the wall, pushed open with enough force to rattle all eight glass panes in their frames.  Castiel looks up from his desk, startled, to see six feet of sandy-haired fury bearing down on him as the door swings closed again.

"I need to send a telegram," the man hisses as he leans down to put his hands on Castiel's desk.

With mere inches between their faces, Castiel can see the man's freckles standing out over slightly flushed skin and the spark in his green eyes.  His voice comes out a little squeakier than he might prefer when he answers, "Of course, sir."

"It should say 'Fuck you.  Strong letter to follow.'  That's the entire message," the man says before Cas has a chance to pick up his pencil.  His fingers clench around the letter he's holding, his mouth pulling into a tight, unhappy line as he waits for Castiel to write the message down.

Castiel can only stare; mouth hanging open, hand frozen halfway to his pencil.

"Sir," he starts apologetically, "I am not allowed to -"

"Send it," the man says, his meager patience clearly running out.

"But, sir, that language isn't - "

"Send it," the man answers.  This time his tone brooks no argument.

Castiel considers his options.  On one hand, there's his boss, a foreigner by the name of Crowley who has a nasty temper and a strong distaste for vulgar language.  On the other hand, there is a  _very_  angry man with  _very_ green eyes staring as though he's contemplating how much force it would require to separate Castiel's head from his body.

"To whom shall I send it?"  Castiel's tone is clipped as he's forced into choosing the lesser of two evils.

"What?"  The man blinks; the hard, angry lines at the corners of his eyes softening almost immediately.  The change makes him even more beautiful, if such a thing is possible.

"I need the recipient's name and address," Castiel says, pencil in hand.  He's hedging his bets by not committing the  _message_  to paper for Crowley to find lying around, but he has no choice except to write everything else out.

"Sam Winchester," the man across the desk says, his eyes hardening again.  He consults the letter in his hand and reads off,  "Seven-oh-one Elm Street, San Francisco."

Castiel dutifully writes it down before looking back up at the handsome stranger.  He offers a half smile and asks, "And your name?"

"Oh, he'll  _know_  who it's from."  With those words still hanging in the air; the man tosses silver coins on Castiel's desk, turns on his heel, and exits the telegraph office.

"I don't know where to deliver your  _reply_ ," Castiel growls, but the rattle of glass panes has already replaced the sound of boots on the creaky wood floor.

***

The reply comes in less than two hours later:  "I WILL MAKE MY OWN DECISIONS"

Castiel calls for the boy who usually delivers telegrams, but gets no answer.  With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he locks the door of the telegraph office and heads off for the hotel two blocks away where most newcomers to town take lodging.

"I'm looking for someone," Castiel tells the barkeep without preamble. He reads from the telegram,"Dean Winchester." And adds: "Six foot tall, green eyes, hostile?"

Gabriel laughs at the description, then rolls his eyes knowingly.  "Upstairs, room six.  Good luck, Castiel."

Castiel frowns at the last, the lump in his belly growing heavier as he makes his way up the flight of stairs to the second floor.  He pauses outside the door with the crooked "6" on it and steels himself before knocking.  Scrambling sounds come from the other side of the door and ten seconds later it opens a few inches to reveal a dripping wet Dean Winchester with only a thin cloth slung low around his waist clutched in one hand.

"What do you want?"  

Dean's words are so harsh Castiel takes a step backward reflexively and swallows before he holds out the telegram.  And if his heart is racing?  That has  _nothing_ to do with the expanse Dean's tanned chest dotted with freckles to match the ones across his nose.  Nothing at all.  Dean stares impatiently at Castiel, whose brain takes a minute to get the message that needs to  _read_  the telegram because Dean doesn't really have a free hand to take it.

"The  _hell_  he will," Dean snarls after Castiel dutifully delivers Sam's reply.  "Wait right here."

The door closes in Castiel's face, and he stands in stunned silence while the sound of scrambling on the other side starts up again.  A moment later, it opens again and Dean comes walking out, his white dress shirt clinging to his wet torso obscenely and one trouser leg tucked into his boot.

"I need to send a telegram," he says by way of greeting.

***

Over the next six days, Castiel pieces together the story of the Winchesters through the telegrams he sends and delivers.   They're brothers, evidenced by Dean's "DAD DIDN'T WANT THIS" and Sam is in school in San Francisco as evidenced by his "I WILL STUDY LAW WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT"; a fact Dean is not happy about as evidenced by the  _first_  telegram he sent.  Cas can't quite make heads or tails of Dean's "YOU SHOULD BE HERE HUNTING" or of Sam's "HUNTING IS YOUR LIFE NOT MINE" since Dean doesn't really  _look_  like his mental image of a hunter, but it doesn't bother him all  _that_  much .

As the days pass, Dean begins to greet Castiel with a shy smile instead of anger.  A few times, he invites Cas into his little room at the hotel to wait while he tries to think of a reply and, although they couldn't have gotten off to a worse start, Castiel soon finds Dean just as charming as he is handsome.  If he were honest with himself, he'd would say he's smitten.  But, it's  _definitely_  not that.  On the sixth day, a telegram comes in from San Francisco just as Castiel is closing the telegraph office for the night.

"THIS CONVERSATION IS OVER UNLESS YOU WANT TO COME CONTINUE IT FACE TO FACE"

Castiel's heart sinks.  It sounds so..  final.  Worse, if the conversation is truly over, it means he will have no reason to see Dean again.  Even worse than  _that_ , Dean might take Sam up on the offer of continuing the conversation in San Francisco.  Castiel clutches the telegram in his sweaty palm as he paces the floor of the office and tries to decide what to do.  

He could pretend it didn't come and not deliver it and Dean would probably come by in the next couple of days and Castiel could tell him..  what?  

"I'm smitten."  

"I think of kissing you far more than I ought to."

"I want to see whether you have freckles under your trousers, too."

He stops in his tracks, his mouth going dry as he finally lets  _those_  thoughts form a coherent picture in the back of his mind.  At once, his decision is made.  The sun is setting as Castiel hurriedly locks up the office and walks briskly toward the hotel, afraid that if he pauses for even a second he'll lose his nerve.  He doesn't stop at the bar, instead he winds through the tables and past the piano where a drunken cowboy is crooning  _The_   _Yellow Rose of Texas_  for an adoring gaggle of women, then he marches up the stairs and to the door with the now-familiar crooked "6" at eye level.

Without hesitation, Castiel knocks on the door, his cheeks flushing hot as he waits the interminable few seconds it takes Dean to open it.  When it finally swings open, he sees that Dean is in his trousers and bare feet, hair tousled as though he's been running his fingers through it for hours.  Dean's tanned body is every bit as beautiful as he remembers from his first visit and Castiel's heart hammers behind his breastbone as he takes a bold step forward.  

Dean's eyes widen in surprise, but he smiles and takes a step back to let Castiel in.  With every bit of courage Cas has managed to muster up in the half hour since the latest telegram came in he turns to face Dean. Standing so close their chests are almost touching, Cas takes a deep breath.

"Sam sent you another telegram," he says in a rush, his nose a scant inch from Dean's.  "He said your conversation is over unless you go to San Francisco to continue it but I'd rather you stay here because I've grown quite fond of you and of your freckles and I shall kiss you now."

With a quick whoosh of breath, Castiel leans forward to do precisely that.  Dean's lips are half-parted already in surprise and just as soft as Castiel imagined.  He presses a quick kiss, then another, before Dean reaches up to take his face in both hands and pull him in for a deeper kiss.  Their lips crush together, the heat of Dean's bare chest seeping through Castiel's starched shirt, dissipating the lump of fear in his stomach.  Cas grabs Dean's hips and pulls their bodies flush as Dean's tongue teases its way between his lips.

As Dean takes a step backward, leaning against the door behind him and pulling Castiel along, their bodies fit together like they were made for it.  With the occasional half-second break for a gasped breath, they kiss until their lips are slick with spit and plumped with friction.  Dean's body trembles where it presses to Castiel's, his fingers stroking through Castiel's hair and teasing at his neck, drawing muted sounds of pleasure.  

When they finally break apart for good, the only light left in Dean's room is the candle on his tiny desk.  It flickers and dances, casting shadows across his face as he pulls back far enough to get a good look at Castiel.  His voice is hoarse and low when he says, "I need to send a telegram."

 


End file.
